


The Desecration of Eliot Spencer

by TriaKane



Category: Leverage
Genre: Branding, Coercion, Dubious Consent, Eliot Spencer Whump, Getting by with a little help from his friends, Hurt Eliot Spencer, Hurting him hurts me, It says rape in the warning..., Kidnapping, M/M, Oh and he cut his hair..., Right before The Rundown Job, Set mid season 5, Torture, Very Dubious Consent, liberal use of whiskey, like really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 12:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12388095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriaKane/pseuds/TriaKane
Summary: An enemy from their past is back and their hitter is missing. Are these two things connected?





	The Desecration of Eliot Spencer

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a sequel to [The Worst Thing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4316373).

Sitting in a small Italian restaurant in the heart of the downtown, Nate’s ringing cell phone interrupted the conversation he was having with Sophie.

Frowning, Nate shook his head at Sophie and pocketed the phone, call unanswered. 

Before he could suggest dessert at his place, his cell rang again.

“Sorry,” he said, grabbing the phone and answering the call. “What do you want, Sterling?”

“You’ve got trouble, Nate,” Sterling said. “Moreau escaped.”

***

Hurrying to the car, Nate handed Sophie the keys while he called Hardison.

“Parker with you?” Nate asked as Sophie frantically gestured. “Yes,” he told her. “Eliot?” Nate shook his head. “Call him now, I’ll hold.”

Nate put the phone on speaker and held it up. They exchanged worried looks as the ringing went unanswered.

“What is it, Nate?” Hardison asked.

“Moreau,” Nate said tersely. “Stay there, we’re going to Eliot’s. Keep trying to reach him.”

Pocketing the cell phone, Nate held on as Sophie drove. “He’ll be fine.”

They didn’t talk anymore as she drove. 

Arriving outside Eliot’s building, Nate jumped out of the car before she could fully stop. “Stay here. If anybody comes, just take off.”

He heard the doors lock as he ran into the building.

A few minutes later, Nate was back, looking around disgustedly. “He’s not here.” He climbed back into the car and tried the hitter’s phone again.

“Where could he be Nate?” Sophie asked agitatedly.

Nate was afraid he already knew.

***

Hardison was ready when they got to the brewpub.

“Okay, I tracked his comm to Richmond, near Clinton street.”

The screens came alive, focusing in.

“What’s he doing in that neighborhood?” Sophie asked.

“His favorite sushi place is right around...” Everyone was staring at Parker. “What?”

“How do you know that?” Hardison asked.

“How do you **not** know that?”

“Hardison!” Nate and Sophie said at the same time.

“Okay, I got it,” Hardison said as the screens filled with images of empty streets. “That’s not good,” 

“Run it back,” Nate directed.

“Already on it.” Hardison tapped on his keyboard a few more times, and then the images on the screens were reversing.

“There!” Sophie said, pointing.

Hardison hit play and the images began to crawl forward. Eliot walking alone, crossing the street, then…

“Did they just hit him?” Parker said, stepping closer to the screen.

Hardison zoomed in and tried to clean up the image. They watched again as a van pulled away from the curb and ran into Eliot, knocking him down. They watched three men exit the vehicle, hit a dazed Eliot with a pipe or baton, knocking him to the ground. They watched the men secure Eliot’s hands behind his back and load him in the back of the van. It happened in less than a minute.

“Is that Moreau?” Hardison asked. “Did Moreau do that?”

“We have to assume it is,” Nate said. “Until we... we...”

“Uh, guys, you’re not gonna like this.” Hardison minimized the traffic cameras and brought up a national news report.

“This is Becca Henderson reporting from San Lorenzo where earlier today President Michael Vittori was assassinated.”

“Was that Moreau too?” Sophie asked.

“All of this on the heels of former President Edwin Ribera’s death in a car accident yesterday.”

“Moreau’s cleaning house,” Hardison said grimly, “and I think Eliot’s next.”

“Find that van,” Nate directed, “I wanna know where it went.”

***

“If I told you to stay in the car, would you?” FBI agent Todd McSweeten asked.

“Would you?” Nate answered.

“Fair enough.”

Hardison had tracked the van to a warehouse near the Portland harbor. 

“Stay behind me,” McSweeten said, drawing his weapon.

At a door to the warehouse, McSweeten tested a door knob and found it unlocked. He eased open the door, light spilling out. After a quick glance in, McSweeten gestured for Nate to wait. 

After a quick sweep of the warehouse, Sweeten holstered his weapon and gestured to Nate. The warehouse was quiet and, except for the van Hardison had tracked there, empty. Other than a discarded metal pipe, the van was empty and revealed no further clues as to Eliot’s whereabouts. 

“Hardison,” Nate said, speaking into his comm, “what do you have?”

Thinking three steps ahead, Nate had given Hardison instructions before leaving to meet McSweeten. 

“Two cargo type vans and two box trucks left that area within the last two hours.” Hardison, Parker and Sophie had been reviewing all video footage from the surrounding area. “Traced one van to Portland International, where it’s sitting inside a private hanger. The other van went to Pearson Field just across the Washington border. One box truck is heading south and the other north.”

“The trucks are a decoy,” Nate told him, “Moreau would want to get Eliot out of here quickly. Focus on Pearson Field, McSweeten and I are going to Portland International.”

***

McSweeten’s FBI badge gained them access to the private hanger, but there was nothing in there except an empty van. No private flights had departed since before Eliot’s disappearance, and no private flights were scheduled to depart that morning.

“Hardison, what have you got?” Nate asked, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

“Nada,” Hardison said definitively. “No planes in or out in the last four hours.”

“Did you—”

“Confirmed via six different cameras,” Hardison confirmed.

“What about the—”

“Bribed a security guard to scout the van. Said he didn’t have to, the guy had parked and was picked up by a dark SUV.”

Nate ran a hand through his hair. _What the hell? It didn’t make... make sense... oh hell!_

“The box trucks!” Nate slammed his hand down on the car. “Where are the trucks, Hardison.”

“Uh...” Nate heard Hardison’s fingers flying on the keyboard. “The north bound one is... north of Seattle, still on the 5.”

“And the one going south?” Nate asked, but somehow he already knew what the answer would be.

He waited, thinking about what Moreau’s next move would be.

“Nate,” Hardison said, surprised, “it stopped.”

“Where?” Nate asked, already getting into McSweeten’s car.

“Aurora State Airport.”

“Find out what you can, we’re headed there.”

***

This time McSweeten’s FBI badge elicited nervousness from the two men on duty. Nate channeled his inner hitter and punched the security guard three times before McSweeten could stop him. After that, the men were surprisingly cooperative. 

They’d been paid handsomely to look the other way as a private plane had landed, after hours, and was escorted to a private hanger. The plane had been refueled and taken off quickly. All of this had happened three hours ago. 

“Hardison, I need you to find me a plane.” Nate gave the hacker the tail number.

“Okay, I gotcha, I gotcha...” More clicking on the keyboard. “Uh huh, uh huh... huh?”

“What?!”

“Nate, the flight plan says they’re going to Boston.”

“Get us on the next flight out.”

Luck was on their side as they caught the 10:45p.m. non-stop to Boston with minutes to spare. Unfortunately, with no time to grab much, they were all flying under their own names. Nate knew Moreau was smart enough to figure they’d come for Eliot, he just hoped they were in time.

***

Detective Patrick Bonanno met them at Boston Logan and escorted them to private room.

“We missed them at the airport by minutes,” Bonanno told the team. “We detained the flight crew, but their only orders were to fly to Boston. They didn’t see who was being transported or what they put him in.”

“Hardison.”

“Already on it.”

“Hacking into airport WIFI,” Hardison mumbled as he worked. “Really should change their password. Oh, Logan, you think you can lock me out? Oh, hell, no. Uh huh... give it up, give it up. Yeah, baby, there we go.”

They gathered behind Hardison as he pulled up video from around the airport. Four vans left the private hanger area in rapid succession. Like in Portland, the vans quickly went in different directions.

“This’ll take a minute,” Hardison said without looking up.

“It’s a shell game, Nate,” Sophie said.

Nate nodded in agreement

“Hurry Hardison!” Sophie said irritated.

“Woman, what do you think I’m doing?” he bit back.

“Stop it!” Parker said loudly. She couldn’t stand it when the team argued; it made her feel insecure.

“It’s okay, Parker,” Nate soothed. “We’re all worried.”

Hardison was methodical in his search, one van after another, he followed their trails, switching from city cameras to local businesses, hacking whatever he had to in order to follow them. 

“First one, okay. This is weird. It’s at the city impound lot.”

“I’ll check it out,” Bonanno said, already dialing.

After a few minutes, Bonanno disconnected the call. “It was abandoned in front of South station and towed. It’s empty.”

“Okay, I’ve got the second one,” Hardison told them. “It’s on 95, headed south. Hasn’t stopped.”

Bonanno was dialing again.

“Nate,” Sophie whispered, “this is taking too long.”

He shrugged helplessly.

“Aha! Van three is... oh no.” Everyone looked at him. “Van three is at Hanscom Field near Concord.”

“I’ve got it,” Nate said. “Sophie, get me the number.” He knew she needed to do something.

“The last van, Hardison, where is it?” Parker asked, leaning over his shoulder.

“I, uh, yeah,” he said, momentarily distracted. “I’m on it. Okay, okay.”

“Van two is empty,” Bonanno said. “A Statey was nearby and stopped and searched it. Nothing.”

“Damnit!!” Nate said. “Hanscom has been closed for the last twelve hours due to power issues. But they did say a panel van is parked there. The security guy checked it out. It’s abandoned.”

“Eliot’s gotta be in number four!” Parker said excitedly. “Hardison, where is it?”

“Looking, looking.” His fingers flew across the keyboard, the images changing on his screen rapidly. “Whoa.”

“What?” Nate said, leaning in.

“It’s parked in front of McRory’s.”

***

They raced to the pub that had been their base of operations for three years. Parker was out of the SUV before Bonanno completely stopped, Hardison right on her heels. She flung the back doors open. The van was empty.

“What the hell?” Sophie said, looking from Hardison to Parker.

“He never left the airport,” Nate said ruefully.

“What?” Bonanno asked.

“You said it earlier, Sophie. It’s a shell game.”

“But I followed each van!” Hardison threw his hands up in the air.

“He was never in one of the vans,” Parker said, realizing.

“No,” Nate confirmed. “He was put on another plane.”

“So, where the bloody hell is he?” Sophie asked. 

***

A wave of nausea swept over Eliot. He kept his eyes closed and tried to breathe through his nose. As the nausea passed, he took stock of his situation. He was lying face down on a cold surface, probably the floor; he could feel the rough concrete surface against his cheek. His hands were bound behind his back; he moved his wrists experimentally, feeling plastic instead of metal or rope. The zip-ties felt thicker than standard police issue and he wondered if they were military grade restraints. His ankles were also bound, but through the layers of clothes, he could only assume they would be secured with the same type of restraints.

Physically, his head was pounding. His shoulders were stiff. His wrists were sore. He felt a twinge in his right hip. Taking a deep breath, he felt a small stitch also on the right side. He ran his tongue around his mouth, but tasted no blood just a faint metallic tang. Inhaling slowly, he couldn’t identify any specific scent other than a damp mustiness. Focusing on what he could hear, Eliot didn’t detect anyone else in the immediate area, and all other sounds seemed far off and indecipherable.

Slowly he opened his eyes to take in his surroundings. The floor was indeed concrete, as was the wall in front of him. He turned his head and realized he was in an 8’ X 8’ holding cell. The solid metal door had a small slide window which was closed.

Rolling over, Eliot sat up and tested his wrist restraints. The plastic bit roughly into his wrists as he attempted to pop the restraints open but from a sitting position he had little success. With his ankles bound together, it would be difficult getting to his feet; difficult but not impossible. Lying back down, Eliot pulled his knees up and rocked back and forth, building enough momentum to propel himself onto his feet. He jumped a couple times until he could lean against a wall, the action causing a fresh wave of nausea to wash over him.

Drugs, he guessed, something to keep him sedated. He had a strong tolerance to most sedatives, but he wasn’t immune. From the throbbing in his head and the stiffness in his shoulders, he wondered just how long he’d been kept drugged.

When the nausea passed, Eliot leaned away from the wall, bent a little at the waist, raised his bound wrists behind his back and slammed them against the base of his spine. He did this three times in quick succession but felt no give in the restraints, he growled in frustration and leaned back against the wall.

Hearing the sound of people approaching, Eliot took a deep breath and waited to see what would happen.

The viewing window slid open and he saw an unknown man peer in before the window slid shut again. Eliot listened as a key was inserted into the lock and turned sharply. If his feet had been free, he would have run and kicked the door open, throwing off his captor and trying to make a break for it, but that wasn’t an option so he just waited.

Seeing two guards with Glock 17s in their side holsters, Eliot guessed they were Eastern European. His guess was confirmed when they stepped back and another man stepped in the door frame.

“Bring him,” he said with a distinctive accent.

Eliot let himself be shoved into a wheelchair; everything he learned about his location would help him escape. They pushed him down a long corridor, opening two more locked doors before pushing him into a larger room, probably 10x16, which he took to be an interrogation room. He noticed the table and chairs which were bolted to the floor, and subconsciously noticed the metal rings set into the ceiling and floor. In the far corner of the room, he saw a shower head, faucets and a floor drain. He was lifted from the wheelchair into a straight-back metal chair, metal handcuffs were attached to his ankles and wrists, and then attached to floor rings.

Two guards left but the third man stayed, taking position by the door. He also had a Glock 17 in his side holster but his clothing was less uniform, and there was an air of authority about him.

“What now?” Eliot asked but got no response.

The man was silent.

“Hey, asshole,” Eliot said, “got a sister?”

Seeing the muscles clench in the man’s jaw, Eliot smiled wryly. _Yep._

As if on cue, the door opened, and dressed all in black, Damien Moreau stepped inside, confirming everything Eliot suspected.

***

“Seems like old times, Eliot,” Moreau said, taking a seat across the table from him.

Gesturing to his bound hands, Eliot said, “Not so much.”

“Ah, yes,” Moreau said smoothly. “I had to be sure you wouldn’t try to get away before we could talk.”

Eliot didn’t respond.

“You know, you're the only person who ever left my employ. And you didn't say a goodbye. That hurt.” Damien gestured to himself. “I thought we had something,” he winked, “special.”

“Not the way I remember it,” Eliot said simply.

Moreau shrugged and changed the subject. “Did you and your little team really think I’d stay locked up in that prison?”

“How’d you get out anyway?”

Laughing, Moreau said, “Oh, Eliot. You and your team though you'd bankrupted me but I had money in places no one knew about.” He rubbed his hands together. “Grease the right palm here and there and, _voila_ , here I am.”

Eliot waited; he knew how Moreau loved to talk.

“Sadly, I had to get a whole new crew. You saw to that. Unfortunately, there’s no one as good as you.” Moreau gestured to the guard by the door. “I’ll admit, Chapman was a poor substitute but he was able and...willing.”

“You gonna talk me to death, Moreau?” Eliot asked tersely.

“So eager,” Moreau said with his viper’s smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll get to it. But before we get started, I want you to know that I’m not going to kill you and neither are my men. Not unless you give them no other choice. When we’re done, you will be released.”

Eliot looked at him suspiciously.

“I give you my word,” Moreau said definitively.

While Moreau was a sadistic, sick, son of a bitch, he was a man of his word. If Moreau said he would be released, then Eliot had no choice but to believe him. And at least on the surface, Eliot would go along with whatever Moreau’s game was, but he would look for any weakness and exploit it to escape and save himself. It was how he was built.

“But in the mean time,” Moreau interrupted Eliot’s thoughts of escape. “You need to be reminded why you’re here.”

The door opened and four guards came in.

“Let’s play, shall we?”

***

Moreau rose and left the room with his guard. The four men waited until they heard the bolt slide shut before they moved towards him. In any other situation, Eliot would have been impressed with the way the guards handled him. They took no chances on him getting loose, fastening him with a new set of restraints before removing old ones, and making liberal use of the rings set into the floor to ensure limited movement.

When they were finally done moving him, Eliot found himself strapped face down on the table, arms bound to his sides. They had also removed his boots and socks, and cut off his shirts.

Eliot watched the guards leave and Moreau come back in, he was followed by an older Asian man. From Eliot’s position on the table, he watched silently.

“I wanted only the best for this,” Moreau started. “Mr. Li is an expert in the ancient art of _bastinado_. I hope you appreciate the lengths I went to for this.”

Moreau walked around the table and stood in front of him. Eliot craned his neck to look at him.

Mr. Li came around the table and showed Eliot a rattan cane.

“Please, begin,” Moreau said with glee.

Mr. Li moved out of sight. Eliot prepared himself for a blow to his back, but unexpectedly the cane hit the soles of his bare feet sending a shock through him and he couldn't hold back the gasp.

“Yes, yes,” Moreau said, “it stings a bit, doesn't it?”

Eliot heard the rattan cane sweep through the air again and again, striking the soles of his feet. Twenty strokes, Eliot couldn't help but count. He'd been tortured before—beaten, punched, cut, shot, but this was different. He tried to calm himself, but the blows came so fast, bit so hard, he couldn't get a grip.

Moreau knelt down beside him, studying his face. “That's what it felt like when you left me. It stung.”

Moreau rose and walked out of sight. Eliot felt Moreau’s cool fingers run across the soles of his stinging feet.

“Do you understand?” Moreau asked.

Eliot said nothing.

“Do you understand?” Moreau pushed his thumb into a particularly tender spot on his sole. “Do you?”

Eliot grunted.

Moreau pushed harder.

“Yeah,” Eliot growled.

“Twenty more, I think,” Moreau told Mr. Li.

***

Twenty brutal blows later, Mr. Li left the cell.

“Do you need a break?” Moreau asked, brushing the hair away from Eliot’s face. A light sheen of sweat had broken out across his brow.

Eliot tried to move away, but there was no slack in his bonds and he was forced to endure Moreau’s touch.

“Just get on with it,” Eliot growled.

Moreau shrugged as if to say ‘as you wish’, then said, “You look like you need a drink of water.”

Moreau snapped his fingers and the cell door opened; he left and the four guards from earlier came in. With the same attention to detail, the men shifted Eliot onto his back, leaving him no room to make a move, just reinforcing how well they had been trained and informed.

The men left and Moreau returned with two different men. Eliot’s position on the table allowed him to watch the two men fill buckets of water from the faucets near the back of the room, and anticipate what would come next.

Before they began, one man reached under the table and hit a lever Eliot hadn’t noticed, lowering the end of the table where Eliot’s head was.

“Begin,” Moreau instructed, standing to the side, a smile on his face.

Even as the wet towel was slung across his face, Eliot tried to remain calm. _Moreau isn’t going to let me die. Moreau isn’t going to let me die,_ the mantra ran repeatedly though Eliot’s head as he tried to fight the urge to choke as a bucket of water was poured over his face. What felt like minutes later, the water stopped. In reality, it had only lasted 14 seconds.

Eliot coughed roughly, gasping for breath, the restraints holding him in place.

“More?” Moreau asked.

“Bring it!” Eliot barked between gulps of air.

“You heard the man,” Moreau said snidely, gesturing for them to proceed.

Once again the wet towel was draped over Eliot’s face and a bucket of water was slowly poured over his nose and mouth, simulating drowning.

Eliot spit up water, gasping for breath.

“This is how I felt when I saw you again, like I couldn't breathe,” Moreau said quietly, kneeling beside Eliot’s ear. “Do you understand?”

Eliot coughed again but didn’t answer.

“Do you?” Moreau said louder, slapping Eliot’s face.

“Yeah!” Eliot said, his voice rough. “I get it!”

Moreau stepped away as the two men returned with freshly filled buckets.

“Let’s start again.”

***

After two more rounds, the two men left, leaving Eliot exhausted and gulping air like a starving man.

“Need a break?” Moreau asked, almost tenderly.

“Wha’d’ya want from me Moreau?” Eliot asked, his bloodshot eyes pinning Moreau in place.

“Nothing.” Shaking his head, Moreau spread arms. “I just want you to know how I felt. Have anything to say to me?”

Eliot said nothing, gritting his teeth.

“How about sorry?” Moreau suggested. “Why don't you tell me you're sorry?”

“Go to hell!” Eliot yelled.

Moreau laughed loudly. “Not today, my friend.”

Moreau snapped his fingers and the four guards come back in. Eliot heard the crackle a second before he felt the stun gun zap him in the ribs, knocking him unconscious.

@#$

When Eliot came to, he realized he was hanging from the rings in the ceiling. His shoulders screamed from the strain but with Moreau sitting in front of him, Eliot tried to give nothing away. Experimentally, he tried to move his legs, but quickly figured out that they were also secured, probably to the rings in the floor. He was a bit unsettled to only be wearing his boxer briefs.

“He's ready,” Moreau said with a smirk.

Eliot heard the crack of a whip behind him and tried to turn his head to see what was coming. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure twining a whip.

Moreau started talking again, drawing Eliot’s attention to him.

“You killed all my men. All 16 of them. I think it's only fair you feel the same 'sting' I did.” 

Moreau nodded and Eliot heard the man behind him step into place, and then the sound of the whip whistling through the air.

He tried to prepare himself for the blow but it still made him gasp and grit his teeth. The second strike came quickly but he closed his eyes, trying to mentally remove himself and absorb the pain. 

Moreau’s yell broke his focus, screaming, “Harder!”

The blows came faster and harder. Eliot’s back stung and burned with each strike, and he remembered shooting each man. 

Finally, it was over.

Eliot sighed deeply, dimly aware of the whip master leaving. Moreau rose and stepped behind Eliot to survey the damage.

Moreau whistled. “You don't look so good, my friend.”

Eliot grunted tiredly, sweat stinging his eyes.

Hearing Moreau behind him, Eliot couldn’t raise enough interest to see what he was doing, but when he felt Moreau beside him, Eliot tensed. Feeling something press against his back, it took a moment before the sting of alcohol in the broken skin registered. Eliot flinched and tried to move away but there was no give in his bonds and he endured the sting.

“This is how I felt when you betrayed me,” Moreau said, ardently. “Flayed open and in pain. I trusted you, Eliot. You were closer to me than anyone else.”

Eliot felt the cloth move over his back, increasing the extent of the sting. He hissed in pain.

Moreau stepped in front of Eliot and dropped the blood-stained cloth where Eliot could see it.

“Do you understand?” Moreau asked. “Are you sorry yet?”

Barking out a laugh, Eliot saw Moreau’s face redden in anger. Turning, Moreau quickly punched Eliot in the face, cutting his lip.

Eliot spit blood to the floor, then grinned and taunted, “When ya gonna start the torture?”

Moreau grunted angrily and punched Eliot again, knocking him out. 

***

This time when Eliot came to he was sitting in chair across the table from Moreau, hands bound in front of him, but still secured to the chain and bolted to the floor. His back felt better as he leaned heavily against the cold metal, but he was uneasy realizing he was now naked.

“Well, it seems we’ve almost come to the end, Eliot, but I need you to see something first.”

Eliot tried not to react, knowing that Moreau was a hyena and anything was possible.

Moreau snapped his fingers and the first guard came in guy with laptop. Opening it, Moreau clicked a few buttons and then spun it around so Eliot could see the screen.

“Here we go. Recognize this?”

Eliot recognized the outside of brewpub. _Fuck._

“Let’s see,” Moreau said conversationally, “what else do we have?”

With a click of a button, the view changed to inside of brewpub. Eliot saw Amy and other staff he was familiar with, and realized the feed was current.

Another click and the image changed to their offices. Eliot wasn’t sure if he was relieved to see the offices empty and dark. Maybe... maybe the team was somewhere safe.

 

“Oh,” Moreau started, his tone and expression were deadly, “you want to see your team, don’t you?” Moreau turned the screen away from Eliot.

Fear and anger burned hot in Eliot’s belly, but he could only wait helplessly while Moreau tapped a few more keys. _If he fucking touched them..._

“Ah, here.” Eliot’s heart stopped as the laptop slowly turned back in his direction.

There they were, his team, his... family. The location was unfamiliar but they looked safe. Nate was pacing, drink in hand. Hardison was typing on his laptop, untouched orange soda beside him. Sophie was sitting nearby, but her foot was bouncing in nervousness. Parker... Parker was sitting cross-legged on a couch... sitting still. Eliot knew she was worried.

“Does it warm your heart to know they’re looking for you?” Moreau asked sardonically. 

Eliot’s expression must have given something away.

“I can have your people in my hands with a single word, it’s your choice.”

“What do ya want?” Eliot growled.

Moreau leaned back in his chair and smiled slowly. “I want you to submit to me.”

Eliot laughed loudly. “Not gonna happen!”

Moreau was impassive. “Oh, I can be very persuasive. You see, you took all that very well, as expected, but can you imagine Sophie being caned? How do you think she’d handle it? Do you think Nathan Ford could survive the waterboarding like you did? Be interesting. What about your hacker, Hardison? Wonder how he’d like to feel the sting of the whip on his skin. You see, that’s what will happen if you don’t submit. Your choice.”

Eliot was silent.

“You’ve gotten weak, my friend. Attaching yourself to them.” Moreau shook his head.

Eliot sneered in contempt.

“How about I call your friend Nate?” Moreau asked.

Slipping a cell phone from his pocket, Moreau hit a button. Eliot could hear faint ringing, and on the screen, he saw Nate hold up his phone.

“Who is this?” Eliot heard Nate say.

“Don’t you know?” Moreau said, sarcasm dripped off every word.

“We’re coming for you,” Nate assured him.

“No, Nate, it’s a trap!” Eliot yelled, trying to warn them.

“I don’t think he heard you,” Moreau said with a shake of his head.

On the screen, the team had rushed to Nate’s side, their worried faces tore at Eliot’s heart. Moreau slammed the laptop lid closed.

“You think my arms can’t reach that far?” Moreau picked up his cell phone and made a call. “Deliver it now.”

After disconnecting the call, he opened the laptop lid and clicked a few buttons. The camera angle changed to an interior of what looked to be a hotel. Then Eliot saw a man pushing a room service cart down the corridor before stopping and knocking on a door. Moreau clicked another button and the image shifted to the interior of the hotel room. Eliot watched Nate open the door.

“My men are right there, Eliot,” Moreau said. “They could take them right now, as you watch.”

Eliot stared at the screen until Moreau slammed the laptop shut.

“I’ll give you some time to think about it.” Moreau stood and left the room.

Eliot tried his bonds again but they were still tight, his wrists rubbed raw. Even if he could get free, how would he escape the room?

Eliot had studied the room and found no weakness. The metal cell door had no lock to pick on his side (even if he had something to pick it with) and it opened inward, so kicking it open wouldn’t work. There was a small viewing port with a metal slide closure but it was so small, he wasn’t sure how he would even use it to his advantage. He wondered if even Parker could escape the cell. It hurt to think about her, but he was glad it was him and not her being held and tortured.

His gut twisted when he thought about Moreau torturing his team. 

Maybe just getting free from his bonds would be enough. He could snap Moreau’s neck and it would be over. He would likely die there, but the team would be safe. But there was no guarantee that Moreau hadn’t given orders to kill the team if Eliot somehow managed to kill him. He felt stuck in a catch-22.

That left his other option: submitting to Moreau. 

Eliot tried to rationalize it in his head. It wouldn’t be the first time Moreau fucked him and Eliot knew he could take it. He could take the punishment, take it for the team and keep them safe. _It’s what I do._

The room door opened and Moreau stood in front from him, forcing Eliot to tilt his head back to look at him. “So? What’s it to be?”

“Do what you’re gonna do, Moreau,” Eliot sneered.

“No, no,” Moreau said, shaking his head. “Ask me.”

“What?”

“Ask me nicely.”

Eliot sighed and shook his head. “Would you just fuck me and get it over with?”

“Say please.” Moreau toyed with him.

“Please,” Eliot said, his jaw clenched tight. 

Moreau shook his head and leaned forward, inches from Eliot’s face. 

“I don’t think you really mean it, Eliot. I think you need more incentive.” Moreau picked up his cell phone. “How about I have one of my men grab one of the girls? That blonde, Parker, looks like a tasty treat. I’m sure my men would like some of that. Tear that ass up a bit. Think she’d like it?”

“Leave her the fuck alone, Moreau,” Eliot spit out. “I already said yes. Fuck me.”

Moreau leaned back and pretended to weigh Eliot’s words. “Ask me one more time, politely.”

Eliot forced his jaw to relax and said in a measured tone, “Please, fuck me?”

Clapping his hands, Moreau smiled widely. “Well, since you said please.”

Moreau stepped closer to Eliot, caressing his cheek before running a finger across Eliot’s lips. “I really have missed this mouth.”

“Put anythin’ in my mouth and I’ll bite it off,” Eliot warned.

Moreau laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so.” He stepped behind Eliot and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Remember that village outside Bratislava?”

Eliot felt his breath catch in his throat.

“How many women was that?” Moreau asked, his voice deep and dark. “I remember two.”

“Th-th-three,” Eliot stammered.

“Ah, yes, three. I never knew there could be so much blood, but slicing someone open from gut to throat will do that. But you, you never hesitated, no matter how much those women screamed. I always admired that.” Moreau brushed Eliot’s hair back and whispered in his ear. “I wonder how Sophie would look with her insides hanging out?”

Eliot gagged at the image. “You sick son of a bitch! If you fuckin’ touch a hair on any of their heads...”

“Relax, relax,” Moreau said, still petting Eliot’s hair. Eliot tried to move away but Moreau gripped his hair and pulled his head back. “No biting!”

Moreau leaned down and experimentally kissed Eliot. Pulling away fractionally, Moreau studied Eliot’s eyes until he saw the submission. This time when he kissed Eliot again, it was all tongue and aggression.

Breaking the kiss, Moreau released Eliot’s hair. “Nice.” He pushed his erection against Eliot’s arm. “You always made me so hard.”

Moreau caressed Eliot’s face, his thumb sliding over Eliot’s lips and into his mouth. Undoing his pants with one hand, Moreau stroked his cock in Eliot’s face and then guided himself into Eliot’s mouth.

Eliot closed his eyes and tried not to choke. 

“Suck it!” Moreau ordered.

His stomach rolling, Eliot fought the urge to gag and complied. He sucked as Moreau repeated thrust his cock into his mouth. 

Suddenly Moreau pulled out. “Just like I remember it.”

Closing his pants, Moreau called for the guard. 

“If something happens to me,” Moreau instructed the guard, “tell the men to kill his team any way they wish. And he dies in here.” He gestured to Eliot. 

The guard grinned nastily at Eliot. “Yes, sir.”

Moreau handed the laptop to the guard and took the key to Eliot’s shackles. The sound of the door locking behind him was loud in Eliot’s ears. 

“Don’t forget what will happen to them if you resist,” Moreau reiterated. 

Eliot watched as Moreau bent to unlock the cuffs around his ankles. He fought the instinct to kick Moreau in the face, remembering what was most important: his team’s safety. Moreau released Eliot’s bound hands from the chain but left the wrist cuffs on.

“I think we’ll just leave those on for now,” Moreau said.

Eliot stood quickly, bumping into Moreau, trying to wipe the smirk from his face but Moreau just looked amused. He knew he had Eliot right where he wanted him.

“Remember,” Moreau said softly, “you asked for this.”

Moreau stepped to the side and quickly attempted to push Eliot onto the table. He felt Eliot’s initial resistance, and then felt his submission. 

It took everything Eliot had, every ounce of control he possessed, to resist the urge to pummel Moreau into the ground, and let himself be bent over the table. 

Moreau held him down for a long minute, his hands stinging the open wounds on Eliot’s back. 

“Spread your legs,” Moreau commanded. 

Every instinct in him forced him to resist.

“Don’t make me tell you again,” Moreau warned, slapping Eliot’s ass sharply.

Eliot tried not to think about all the ways he could kill Moreau, and instead, focused on the reason he was doing this, and spread his legs.

Squeezing Eliot’s cheeks, Moreau muttered, “Beautiful.”

As Moreau obscenely thrust a dry finger into him, Eliot tried not to flinch but his muscles clenched in rebellion. Trying to remove himself from this place, Eliot imagined himself anywhere else... the beach, the mountains, the desert... anywhere, but Moreau’s incessant comments kept intruding on the calm he was trying to find.

“Oh yes,” Moreau said hotly, “I remember just how tight this ass is.”

Eliot heard a zipper and the rustle of clothing, and felt the invasive fingers slide from his ass. He heard Moreau spit and released the breath he hadn’t realize he’d been holding.

“You always did look good when you were bent over,” Moreau said, and shoved into him.

Eliot gasped sharply, feeling like he was being torn in two.

“Just like I remember it,” Moreau grunted, holding Eliot in place as he fucked him quickly. “So tight.”

Eliot grit his teeth and growled, the impulse to fight back growing inside him. Moreau must have sensed it and slapped the torn flesh on Eliot’s back.

“It. Didn’t. Have. To be. Like. This!” Moreau roared, punctuating each thrust with his words.

Grabbing Eliot by the hair, Moreau twisted it like Eliot had seen him do a thousand other times to women Moreau fucked, and pulled his head back. Some dark place inside Eliot knew Moreau was about to come, and then he felt the scald of semen filling him, staining him from the inside out. Shame and anger ripped through him.

Moreau pulled out and slapped Eliot on the ass. Eliot was up and around, shoving Moreau away, awkwardly clocking him in the jaw, knocking him down. Standing over him, Eliot breathed heavily, then suddenly turned for the drain in the floor, retching. There was nothing inside to come up and after a few dry heaves, Eliot dropped to the floor, laying his head down against the cold concrete and closing his eyes. He tried not to think about the semen leaking from his ass.

After a fashion, Eliot heard Moreau rise and he opened his eyes. Dispassionately, Eliot watched Moreau strip and step under the water, cleansing himself.

Leaving the water on, Moreau knelt beside Eliot and pushed his hair from his face. Wetting his hand again, Moreau washed Eliot’s face and shoulders, avoiding his back. Eliot stiffened when Moreau’s hands moved further down. 

One of Moreau’s cool, damp hands caressed Eliot’s ass, as the other hand stroked Eliot’s cock, never taking his eyes off Eliot’s face. Moreau watched in delight as Eliot started to harden.

Slick with semen, Moreau’s fingers slid back into Eliot’s ass, unerringly finding his prostate. Eliot jerked in response, his body unable to resist the intensity of feeling, hardening further and making tiny motions as the sensations continued.

Eliot cursed his inability to control his own body. _It’s just a bodily reaction, it doesn’t mean anything,_ he justified to himself.

Frustration at not being able to control his own body, Eliot felt helpless and he took a shaky breath. He closed his eyes as he felt them burn in humiliation and shame. This... this was the true torture.

Abruptly, Moreau stopped and moved behind Eliot.

“Do it,” Moreau said softly.

Knowing what Moreau wanted and helpless to resist, Eliot reluctantly fisted his cock. He felt Moreau shove into him again, angling his cock to hit Eliot’s prostate with every stroke. Hoping to lose himself, even if only for a moment, Eliot surrendered and jacked himself harshly. 

With the dual stimulation, Eliot came quickly. Belatedly, he realized that Moreau had stopped moving, and had witnessed, and enjoyed, Eliot’s release. 

“I always knew you enjoyed it,” Moreau taunted.

Moreau snickered as he pulled out and fisted his cock, coming quickly against Eliot’s ass. 

Eliot lay still, his eyes closed against reality, trying to come to grips with the situation. 

Moreau’s fingers rubbed against Eliot’s lips, spreading the semen like lip gloss. Eliot clenched his jaw, hoping to be spared any further degradation. Pushing Eliot’s hair back from his face, Moreau patted him as if he were a pet. Slowly Eliot realized Moreau was also rubbing his semen into his hair. 

“Told you how much I liked the hair.” 

With a laugh, Moreau rose and retrieved the hand cuff key. Eliot kept his eyes down, focusing on watching the key slide into the lock. He felt as if he would shatter in a million little pieces if he met Moreau’s eyes in that moment. 

Once the cuffs were removed, Moreau tossed them away and stepped under the shower spray. After quickly washing off, Moreau dried off with a towel left behind by the water torture men, dropping it heedlessly beside Eliot’s inert form, dressed and left.

Alone with his thoughts, Eliot was filled with emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. Ignoring the various aches in his body, he sat up and crossed his legs, taking a minute to center himself. 

In control once again, Eliot rose and stepped under the shower spray. The water was cold but he didn’t care. Showering quickly, he roughly scrubbed at his body, trying to keep his mind off what he was washing away.

Eliot eyed the towel Moreau used with distaste; it was either use it or remain naked, and right now, he needed something, some thing resembling normal. With no further thought, Eliot picked up the damp towel and quickly dried off before wrapping it around his waist. 

Feeling overwhelmed, Eliot knew he needed to meditate and try to restore some degree of calm. He refused to sit in the metal chair and thinking about sitting on the floor made his stomach clench. Instead, he studied the floor and imagined a meditation circle. 

Taking a deep breath in through his nose, he slowly released it through his mouth and closed his eyes. He put his hands in _anjali_ (palm-to-palm) form chest high, opened his eyes and took a step. Though his feet still stung from the caning, it heightened the feel of the stone floor and somehow intensified his meditation.

He was unsure how long he walked _cankama_ , but when the door finally opened, Eliot had found a measure of stillness in his soul. Though he hadn’t dealt with his feelings, they were locked away for the time being.

Two guards came in followed by Moreau, who sat at the table. He gestured for Eliot to join him but didn’t say a word. Eliot wanted to resist, but he knew that until Moreau had the last word, this would never be over; he sat.

After a long silence, Moreau finally spoke. 

“There’s just one more thing and then you’ll be released.”

Eliot said nothing, waiting.

Moreau leaned forward and set something on the table. Eliot felt his stomach drop, recognizing the seal Moreau used in his correspondence. He also knew Moreau to use it as a brand on people he felt he owned and people who had wronged him. It was the size of a half-dollar, a cursive letter M.

“It’s only fitting,” Moreau said simply.

Ready for this to be over, Eliot turned and presented his right bicep. “Get on with it.”

“Not so fast,” Moreau said with a quirk of his eyebrow. “I haven’t decided where to put it.” 

Eliot sat back as Moreau rose and walked around the table, running a finger along Eliot’s shoulder.

Eliot sat unmoving.

Leaning close to Eliot’s ear, Moreau whispered, “I thought about putting it on your ass.”

Unable to control the shudder than ran through him, Eliot twisted his head away. 

“But,” Moreau continued in his normal tone, “I think it’s best to put it somewhere you’ll see it every day.”

Moreau thrust his hand at one of the guards and was given a kitchen torch. Clicking the torch on, Moreau picked up the seal/brand and heated it. Eliot counted the seconds as he watched the metal heat. He remembered when Moreau first started using the brand. There had been a learning curve when figuring out how long to heat the brand. Heat it too long and the resulting mark was too sloppy, don’t heat it long enough, the mark was too faint.

When Moreau was done, he handed the torch back to the guard and turned to Eliot.

“Do they need to hold you?” Moreau smirked.

Eliot and Moreau had both witnessed the fear of the brand in victims, the idea of the pain was almost more than the actual branding.

Eliot glared at Moreau, and said through gritted teeth, “Do it!”

Coming around the table, Moreau put his hand on Eliot’s right shoulder, pinning him against the chair. With a final smirk, Moreau pressed the hot brand against Eliot’s chest.

Eliot growled in pain and saw the two guards step closer, but Eliot had no intention of doing anything except endure the pain. Finally, Moreau eased the brand from Eliot’s chest and stepped back, surveying his handiwork.

“Looks as good as if you’d done it,” Moreau said with something akin to pride.

Refusing to look down, Eliot kept his eyes on Moreau.

“Alright,” Moreau said, gesturing widely, “you’re free to go.”

Eliot waited. 

“Oh, you need clothes. How silly of me.”

Moreau turned to the door and knocked sharply. As the door opened, Eliot considered rushing them. He was sure he could shove Moreau out of the way and disable one of the guards, but he wasn’t sure what awaited him outside the room. There was no way to know how many other guards there were, or what kind of locks and doors stood between him and freedom. There was still his team to think of, and the threat of what Moreau could still do to them. Plus, there was Moreau’s word, which so far, he had kept.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Moreau said with a grin, before leaving with the guards.

Unable to sit there any longer, Eliot stood up and leaned heavily against the table. He caught sight of the red brand on his chest and closed his eyes to shut out the nightmare. 

Minutes later, Eliot heard the viewing port slide open and heard a female voice.

“Please step away from the door.”

Eliot took several steps back and waited. 

The door opened and a woman stepped in, the door closing behind her. She laid a suit bag on the table and stepped back until she touched the wall. 

“Does Moreau think I won’t hurt ya because you’re a woman?”

She gave no outward sign of the implied threat, but he saw her swallow nervously.

Ignoring her presence, Eliot opened the suit bag. He hid his surprise at seeing an old suit, one he’d left behind when he left Moreau. Dressing quickly, he took a moment to appreciate the finely made suit and how well it still fit him.

Once dressed, he looked at the woman. 

“Now what?”

She said nothing, but produced a pair of military grade restraints. He held out his hands, but she gestured for him to turn around. Complying, he felt her move closer and let himself be handcuffed. He was surprised when she covered his head with a hood, not having seen it. He was even more surprised when he felt the sting of an injection in his neck.

***

Eliot came to abruptly, groaning loudly. With every movement, a different part of his body ached. He remembered the woman injecting him, and wondered how long he’d been out.

Before he could try to figure out where he was, Eliot heard doors opening and several people coming. He was roughly hauled to his feet and escorted down a hallway into what felt like a bigger room. The hood was jerked off and Eliot found himself surrounded by flood lights; he couldn’t see beyond the lights.

A male voice over a loudspeaker surprised him.

“Up for auction, Eliot Spencer, assassin for hire, former military contractor, and retrieval specialist.”

_Holy shit! Fucking Moreau!!_

“The bidding will start at $200,000. We have 200. Do I hear a bid of 300? Now 300. Do I hear 400? I have 400. Do I hear 500? $500,000?”

Eliot wondered who was bidding. Enemies? Obviously not a potential employer. So, who would pay that much money? And why?

“I have a bid of $500,000, do I hear 600? I have 600, do I hear 700?”

Briefly Eliot wondered if he could bid on himself.

“$700,000,” Eliot said experimentally.

“Do I hear 700?”

_Guess not._

“I have 700. Do I hear 800? 800, anyone?”

Eliot again wondered who would pay that kind of money for him.

“I have 800, do I hear 900? Anyone, 900? 900? Okay, 800, going once, 800 going twice. Sold for $800,000!”

The lights suddenly went out and Eliot felt the hood thrown over his head. Before he could turn and try to fight his way free, he heard the crackle of a Tazer and felt the shock go through him.

Eliot felt a sharp ache in his chest when he came to, and realized he’d been Tazed close to the brand. His hands were no longer cuffed behind his back, but when he moved them, he heard the clank of metal on metal. Just when he’d figured out that he was cuffed to a wheel chair, someone started pushing him.

“Here’s your purchase. Enjoy.” The voice was that of the auctioneer.

“About bloody time.” _Sterling! What the fuck?_

His mind raced in a thousand different directions at once.

When the hood was pulled off, the first person Eliot saw was Quinn, grinning at him like an idiot.

“You’ll have your hands full with that one,” Moreau said, stepping into the circle.

“I think I can handle it,” Sterling said cockily. “Damien Moreau?” 

“You are?” Moreau questioned.

“James Sterling. Interpol. You’re under arrest.” 

“For what? Kidnapping.” Moreau laughed.

“Treason, actually,” Sterling explained. “You’re implicated in the killing of the President of San Lorenzo.” Sterling looked at Eliot and asked, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the punishment for treason in San Lorenzo, death by firing squad?”

Eliot nodded his head and smiled. “I think it is.”

Two Interpol agents grabbed Moreau and led him away.

Sterling turned, speaking to someone standing behind Eliot.

“I expect $800,000 back in my account immediately.”

“Of course,” Tara Cole said as she leaned down and unlocked Eliot’s cuffs.

Finally freed of his cuffs, Eliot stood up, looking at his three unexpected rescuers.

“Who’d’ya think y’all are?” he asked.

“We’d be the cavalry,” Quinn said with a chuckle. 

***

On the flight from Croatia (Eliot laughed to himself) to London, Tara told Eliot about her involvement.

“Sophie called and told me you’d been taken by Moreau and they needed help.” She shrugged. “Plus, I owed her.”

Quinn had a similar story. 

“Nate called,” Quinn said simply. “And you still owed me a favor.”

Turning, Eliot looked at Sterling who sat sipping champagne.

“And you?” Eliot asked. “Why’d you get involved?”

Sterling’s reply was delayed by the flight attendant arriving with a tray.

“Your coffee, sir,” she said as she held the tray out to Eliot. 

He met Sterling’s eyes, remembering the last time Sterling had ordered him coffee.

“Changed my mind,” Eliot said, and glared at Sterling while he waved her away.

The rest of the flight was uneventful, and when they arrived in London, the private plane was met by the rest of the team. 

Parker was the first one to greet him, running and jumping into his arms. He should have expected it, but was still surprised.

Hardison was next, squeezing him, if possible, tighter than Parker had. 

“Don’t do that again!” Hardison said emotionally. Eliot’s eyes burned remembering their rescue of Hardison from the coffin.

Sophie was next, unabashed tears rolling down her cheeks. He squeezed her tight and tried to reassure her that he was there and in one piece. 

And then came Nate. 

Eliot felt his heart catch in his throat as Nate’s shaky hand covered his mouth. Eliot pulled him in and gripped him fiercely.

“Too close,” Nate mumbled into Eliot’s neck.

After a round of goodbye’s to his rescuers, Eliot and his crew boarded the private plane, fully refueled for the long trip back home. 

Parker plopped down beside Eliot and wouldn’t let him get more than two feet away. The rest of the team stuck close, as if they were afraid he would disappear.

“Who’s jet is this anyway?” Eliot asked.

“Oh,” Nate said, “it belongs to Walter Whitman Wellesley IV.”

“Mr. Lonely Heart?” Eliot asked.

“He owed me one and I needed it immediately.” Nate shrugged.

Eliot was beginning to understand just how far everyone had gone to find him, the favors they’d called in.

“How’d y’all know I was missing?”

“Sterling,” Sophie told him.

“Called to warn us,” Nate supplied.

“And then?”

“Oh, well,” Hardison said, leaning forward. “You know, I worked my magic. Tracked your comm, found video. You know, did my _thang_.”

“But it was all a shell game,” Sophie elaborated.

They told him about the decoy vans in Portland and Boston, about how they’d manually gone through flight plans leaving Boston until they found the right one to London. In London, they tracked the flight to a private hanger, but this time only one van had left. Thinking they were getting closer, they’d been disappointed when it turned out to be a dead end also.

Tracking cameras and other surveillance systems in London proved a huge job, so Hardison had contacted Chaos.

“You called **him**?!” Eliot was surprised, but Hardison shrugged it off. 

“Chaos was the one that figured out we were being bugged,” Parker said.

Hardison grumbled, “I woulda found ‘em.”

“And once we realized Moreau was watching, we had to improvise,” Nate told him.

“That when you called Tara?” Eliot asked Sophie.

“Called all of them. Everyone we could trust,” she said.

“Even Archie,” Parker informed him. “But since he’s mostly retired, he couldn’t really offer much.”

“Quinn heard about a job requiring specially trained men for a high level threat,” Nate said.

“Then Tara found out about the auction,” Sophie said. 

“And Chaos hacked in and got Sterling an invite,” Hardison finished. 

Eliot was still a little confused on the details and at his questioning look, Nate tried to fill in the blanks.

“Moreau was leaving bread crumbs but they were too perfect. He was only showing us what he wanted us to see. We needed another team to look in a different direction.”

Parker nodded and smiled at him. “But now you’re back!” She flung her arms around him to hug him again, but he was surprised by it, and flinched when she scraped across his chest and the raw brand.

Sophie and Nate saw him flinch and exchanged a questioning look but didn’t say anything. 

Midway across the Atlantic, Eliot eased off the couch and away from a sleeping Parker. Hardison was crashed out in one of the reclining seats, Sophie in another. Nate appeared to be passed out sitting up, the half-empty bottle of Irish seemed to be the cause.

Coming out of the bathroom, Eliot was surprised to find Nate standing there waiting for him. Guilt and recrimination poured off Nate in waves.

“Should never ‘ave gone after Moreau. Stupid.” Nate shook his head.

“No, no!” Eliot said harshly. “It’s on me. I worked for him, I knew what he was.”

Nate seemed momentarily mollified by his explanation, and Eliot helped him back to the seat. Sophie had woken up and tucked her blanket around Nate, then turned to Eliot.

“Do you need a doctor?” she asked softly.

“Naw.”

He could see the doubt and pain in her eyes but he squeezed her hand reassuringly.

“I’ll heal.”

As she moved past him towards the bathroom, he shifted and his back momentarily came in contact with the wall. He winced and shook his head. Looking around, he found Hardison’s eyes on him. The hacker was half out of his seat, but Eliot walked back to the couch and settled in beside Parker.

“What did he do to you?” Hardison asked softly.

Eliot shrugged off the question, but said, “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Hardison looked like he wanted to say more, but Parker’s sleepy voice broke the moment.

“No, not my Sparky!”

Hardison and Eliot smiled at each other, then Eliot laid a comforting hand on her back and Parker immediately settled down.

It would take time, but they would all heal.

***

Moreau looked up as the holding room door opened. If he was surprised to Eliot, his eyes didn’t show it.

“Seems like old times,” Eliot said, taking a seat across from the cuffed man.

Moreau laughed. “I always did enjoy your sense of humor.”

Eliot didn’t say anything.

“You cut your hair,” Moreau observed. 

Eliot still didn’t say a word, but they both knew why he'd cut it.

“What do you want, Eliot? Here to gloat?” Moreau asked suddenly.

“Nope, here to watch you die,” Eliot said sharply.

“I think you missed me,” Moreau went on as if Eliot hadn’t spoken.

“Ya think pretty highly of yourself,” Eliot started, “but honestly, when I walk away from here, I’ll never think of you again.”

“You’ll think of me every time you see my brand on your skin,” Moreau said cockily.

“Brand?”

Standing, Eliot pulled up his shirt, baring his chest. It was unmarked except for a puffy red burn mark. He dropped his shirt back into place.

“I burned it off, just like I burned you out of my life.”

“It’s not that easy, Eliot.”

Walking over to the holding room door, Eliot stood with his hand on the knob. “Yes, it is. You’re just another scar from the past.”

Without another word or a glance back, Eliot let himself out, ignoring Moreau calling his name.

***

Eliot stood in the shadows and watched as Moreau was led to the firing squad. The older man walked with an easy grace, as if he were just going to dinner, and Eliot grudgingly admired that. Eliot knew if the situation were reversed, he wouldn’t go easy. 

Moreau refused a blind fold and stood against the wall facing the firing squad. 

After a reading of the charges, the sentence was ready to be carried out.

“Ready.” The firing squad lifted their weapons.

“Set.” The firing squad readied their weapons.

“FIRE!” Eliot flinched as the volley sounded.

He watched Moreau’s body slump back against the wall and slide, as if in slow motion, to the ground. Holding his ground, Eliot waited until the doctor confirmed Moreau’s death, and then turned and walked away.

The door on his past with Moreau was finally closed forever.

**Author's Note:**

> This was an extremely difficult story to write. It has taken nearly a year and a half. I wrote the middle part, the torture, in a couple of days but got hung up at the rape. A year went by with this story haunting me. I picked it up again earlier this year and wrote the rape, then put it away. I picked it up a month later and wrote the opening search and the rescue, then put it away. Then I couldn't find it! GRR! Luckily, my husband is a genius and found it. Finished the wrap up this week, and here we are.
> 
> I've never written a story like this... violent and painful, and I probably never will again. There were times I just wasn't sure it was going to happen. I hated hurting Eliot, I'd rather throw him on a bed and... yeah, anyway. Hope this story provides closure on the Eliot/Moreau past. I know Eliot's pretty happy it's done with! ;)
> 
> Along the way much help (and some beta-ing) was solicited from Tarryn, PRD and Lyn. Any remaining mistake are sticky little bastards, and if you want to point them out to me, I'll try to get in there and fix them. :)


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